


all the single dads (put your hands up)

by encapsulated



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Gore, Bugs & Insects, Byleth Is Not Immune To Weird Kid Logic, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Jeralt Is Tired, Kid Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers, Spoilers Up To Chapter 9 (Before the Timeskip), The Members Of Jeralt's Merc Company, he's trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/encapsulated/pseuds/encapsulated
Summary: Jeralt does his best to raise Byleth while also trying to make a living as a mercenary, while ALSO avoiding the attentions of the largest religious organization on the continent. Thankfully, he has help.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	all the single dads (put your hands up)

Jeralt startled awake, heart in his throat. The darkened beams of the inn’s roof slowly came into focus as his sleep-fogged brain scrambled to alertness. He felt for the dagger that he always carried with him, finding it in its usual place at his hip. Sitting up, hand hovering over his dagger, he cast about for the reason for his sudden fright.

Pale moonlight peeked through the curtains covering the room’s narrow window. A beam illuminated the source of his subconscious distress. Byleth stood by the bed, hair bleached a pale blue by a sliver of light. She stared, unblinking, at his face, with an intensity that she normally reserved only for sword training and desserts.

“What’re you doin’ up, kiddo?” Jeralt groaned. The tension oozed out of his body now that he knew what had woken him up, leaving only exhaustion behind. “It’s late.”

“I have a question,” Byleth said, eyes still drilling into him.

“What?” Jeralt asked, exasperated, scrubbing his hand over his face. “It couldn’t wait until morning? We have an early start tomorrow, By. You— _we—_ should be sleeping.”

“I want to know _now_. It’s _important_.” Her face showed as little emotion as ever, but Jeralt knew that look. Once she got an idea in her head, nothing would make her let go of it.

Jeralt picked Byleth up and set her on the bed, sighing. He knew that if he refused to answer her extremely ‘important’ question, she would continue to stand over him like a wraith until he _did_ answer. That, or she would try and then pass out on the floor, where she would get cold and possibly ill and then he’d have to deal with a sick, cranky kid while _also_ traveling through Fraldarius lands on the cusp of winter to get to the location of his new job and—it was just easier for everybody involved if he just answered her damned question right now.

“Alright, sweetheart, what do you want to know?” He settled his daughter on the bed next to him, tucking her in. She allowed this, squirming around to get comfortable.

“Papa, what colour are your insides?”

Jeralt blinked. Looked down at his daughter. Byleth looked back, big blue eyes earnest.

“I…don’t know, honestly. I’ve never seen my insides before,” Jeralt answered hesitantly. “I’d imagine that they’re probably red and pink, just like anyone else’s.”

Byleth gave this due consideration, little face thoughtful. She then continued, “Are _my_ insides red and pink too?”

“Probably…er, you’re not going to try to find out, are you? Because that’s no—that’s a bad thing to do, just so you know. Your insides are inside for a _very good reason_.” By Macuil’s hairy balls, he hoped that Byleth hadn’t tried anything dangerous. He remembered the time one of his men had convinced Byleth that humans could fly if they wished hard enough. Jeralt had managed to find Byleth before she’d leapt off the inn’s roof ( _how the_ fuck _had a child that small even gotten up there in the first place?_ ), but only barely. “Why do you wanna know this so badly?”

“I dunno. I just wanted to.” Jeralt stifled another sigh. Byleth nestled against him, eyes drooping.

“Well, I think that it’s time for sleep, don’t you? We can talk more about this in the morning.” Please, dear Goddess, no. Jeralt sincerely hoped that Byleth had forgotten about this line of questioning by the time she woke up again. He gently stroked his daughter’s hair as her breathing slowed. Before he could slip back into sleep himself, however, he felt a small hand pat his abdomen.

“Night-night, eelies. Don’t bite Papa’s insides, okay?” She continued to mumble, her voice trailing off to incoherence as she fell asleep.

Eelies? What were those? Eels? Why was she talking about eels, they hadn’t eaten any today…oh. Oh dear. She was talking about intestines, wasn’t she. How in Fódlan did she know what human intestines looked like? He tried his level best to shield Byleth from the violence inherent to a life as a mercenary, but there were times when he couldn’t leave her somewhere safe. Bandits roamed the land and not all of them were smart enough to avoid a group of heavily-armed mercenaries. Byleth had been present for several skirmishes over the course of her short life. It wasn’t impossible that she’d seen some things even if she was relegated to the back of the group, protected by the company’s healer. Maybe that was what had brought on the sudden urge to ask him what colour his ‘insides’ were.

Well, nothing that he could do about it now. Such was the life of a mercenary. Byleth would have to get used to it sooner or later, although if Jeralt had his choice, it would definitely be later. His last thought before falling unconscious was that he needed to have another talk with Byleth about inappropriate questions.

&&&

Raising a child was hard. Jeralt had always known this on some level, but he would never have guessed that it would be quite this difficult.

After the fire at the monastery, it had just been him, Byleth and a handful of loyal men willing to abandon the Church and join him. Still racked with grief over the death of his wife, it had taken everything he had simply to get through each day. Some days, he only got up because he knew that Byleth would starve without him.

Her unnatural stillness worried him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much when it kept her quiet and agreeable. She ate when prompted, slept at regular times and never, ever cried, not even once. Jeralt had to be particularly mindful of her needs since she never announced her hunger or discomfort. Some of his men muttered, disconcerted, but did the best they could to help nonetheless.

By the time Byleth had begun to stand on her own (with a helping hand, of course), the mercenary band had settled into a rhythm. Every day, each mercenary took a turn as Byleth’s babysitter. Some assumed this responsibility more readily than others.

Liam, for example, enjoyed spending time with little Byleth. As the oldest child in a family of eight, he’d essentially raised many of his younger siblings. Nothing really phased him after having to clean up after seven sticky children for most of his life.

Clarke, on the other hand, disliked Byleth immensely. Not the friendliest person at the best of times, Clarke found the silent, staring babe to be extremely eerie. They took adequate care of Byleth whenever they were assigned to babysitting duty, but Jeralt could tell that it wore on their nerves to be around her.

Byleth’s babysitter-for-the-day would feed her, change her, and keep an eye on her while the rest of the mercenaries worked. Ghyslain, the company’s only healer, often kept the babysitter company. As the only person that knew anything about childcare (“I don’t care what kind of dare you have going on, you are _not_ feeding the baby ale!”), Ghyslain often had to advise the others in caring for Byleth.

Jeralt distinctly remembered the day that Byleth had said her first word. Ghyslain, normally a calm and level-headed man, had burst into Jeralt’s tent.

“You have to come _right now_ ,” the healer had said, practically vibrating out of his skin with impatience.

“What is it? Is it Byleth?” Jeralt had asked, mind instantly conjuring up terrible scenarios. Who had been in charge of Byleth that day? Liam? Tia? Marnie? Hopefully not Marnie. The woman was a born warrior, but she had the common sense of a feral cat. For Byleth’s six-month ‘half-birthday’, Marnie had given her a tiny, baby-sized axe. An actual, sharpened axe. Jeralt had quickly confiscated it, to Marnie’s strident protests that Byleth “needed to start training early!”

“Yes! You have to see this—it’s amazing!” With that, Ghyslain had dashed off, closely tailed by his captain. They rushed to the wagon, where Marnie had indeed been looking after Byleth. Thankfully, there were no sharp and/or pointy objects nearby that Jeralt could see. “Marn, I got him! See if you can get her to say it again?”

Marnie grinned at him. “Hey, you actually found him! I wasn’t expecting you to just charge off like that!”

Ghyslain blushed. “Well, it’s a momentous occasion. It’s only fitting that Jeralt be here, isn’t it?”

“What is this about?” Jeralt crossed his arms, simultaneously relieved that his daughter was okay and irritated at getting dragged from his work. Byleth gave no sign that she’d even noticed Jeralt’s presence, gumming at the fingers of one hand while trying to slap Marnie’s outstretched hand with the other.

“Byleth said her first word!” Ghyslain gushed, immediately forgetting his embarrassment.

“Um, that’s great?” Jeralt tried and failed to come up with the appropriate amount of parental joy. Was it supposed to be a big deal that his daughter had spoken for the first time? She’d been making noises, little grunts and coos, for months now. It wasn’t that big of a leap for that to become actual words.

“You could stand to look a bit happier about it, Cap,” Marnie complained. Byleth hummed, bouncing on her rear as she finally managed to land a solid smack on Marnie’s hand.

“I am happy!” Jeralt protested.

“I’m sure that the captain will understand our excitement when he actually hears Byleth speak,” Ghyslain said soothingly. He bent down, putting him at eye level with Byleth. “Hello, little one.”

Byleth ignored him in favour of continuing to slap at Marnie’s hand.

“By? Byleth? Could you repeat what you said earlier?” Ghyslain gently tapped Byleth on the arm, prompting her to direct a blank stare in his direction. “Remember? When we asked who your favourite person was?”

Byleth stared uncomprehendingly.

Marnie carefully, but firmly pulled Byleth’s fingers free from her mouth. “By, who’s your favourite person? Who is it?” She pointed at Jeralt, directing the baby’s gaze to her father. “Who’s that, Byleth? Is that your favourite person right there?”

Byleth proceeded to stick her other hand in her mouth, making a valiant attempt to cram the whole thing in. She resisted when Marnie tried to tug them back out.

“Papa? C’mon, say it. I know you know how to. Pa. Pa. Papa. _Papa_.”

A placid blink. The fist was now firmly lodged in her mouth. Jeralt was impressed.

Ghyslain scratched his head. “I don’t know why she isn’t cooperating with us. She said it multiple times earlier.”

Jeralt shrugged. “Kids. What’re ya going to do?” Trying to give a small child orders was like trying to catch a greased pig—it wasn’t going to work no matter how many bribes or threats you made.

“Come on, By! You’re making liars outta us!” Marnie begged, finally succeeding in stymying Byleth’s earnest efforts to eat her own fist. “Say it, please? Pretty please?” Jeralt watched in amazement as Byleth’s brow furrowed, her mouth pursing in a petulant moue.

“No!” Wiggling like a landed fish, Byleth escaped Marnie’s grasp and began crawling away into the dark recesses of the caravan. “No no no no no no no!”

Jeralt burst into a deep belly-laugh. After a moment of silent astonishment, Ghyslain and Marnie followed suit. His daughter pouted at them from her hiding spot behind a stack of boxes.

Jeralt coughed, clutching his belly. Saints, he hadn’t laughed like that in a long, long time. It had felt good.

Byleth’s vocabulary grew by leaps and bounds after that. Although she was still rather quiet for her age, she quickly discovered that the adults around her responded favourably when she babbled. The fastest way to spur a grown-up into action was to grab the nearest body part and carefully enunciate her desires. Unfortunately, being surrounded by rough-and-tumble mercenaries meant that a significant portion of her growing list of words were unsuitable for polite company.

There was one day where Jeralt discovered Byleth’s newly acquired ability to cuss like a sailor. Hoisting Byleth into his arms, he marched into the tavern where his men were drinking and demanded, “Okay, which one of you bastards taught my daughter to say ‘pox-ridden son of a whore’?”

Liam snorted into his mug of ale. Ghyslain covered his eyes while Marnie began cackling hysterically. Clarke gave Tia a pointed look. She blushed.

“ _Tia._ ” Jeralt glared at the mage. Byleth burbled from her perch in his arms.

“It was an accident!” Tia protested. “I didn’t know that she could hear me!”

“You shouldn’t be using language like to begin with!” Ghyslain scolded.

“Aw, don’t be such a prude, Ghys!” Marnie slapped the healer hard on the back. He wheezed. “There’s nothin’ wrong with a bit of colourful language now and then!”

“There is when we have a literal child in our midst!” Ghyslain countered.

“I wish I could’ve heard it when she said that,” Liam said wistfully, wiping spilled ale off his chin. “D’you think you could get her to repeat it?”

“Yeah, I wanna hear too!” Marnie agreed. “By, tell your big sis Marnie what you called your dad earlier.”

“Bah,” replied Byleth, waving a ragged stuffed griffon. It was her favourite toy, created from a pile of scrap cloth and straw.

“ _No._ I am not encouraging that kind of language from my daughter,” Jeralt said. He adjusted his hold on Byleth. “And I don’t want any of you to encourage her either. That means you watch your mouths from now on, got it?”

“Weren’t you the one that just called _us_ bastards?” Clarke muttered into their tankard.

“What was that?” Jeralt transferred his death-glare to them.

“Fuck!” Byleth shouted, lobbing her toy at Clarke’s head with pinpoint precision. They squawked, dropping their tankard and clutching their head.

Tia snorted, quickly covering her mouth with a hand. “Well, she didn’t learn that from _me_.”

“Ha, looks like By’s got a shining future as a merc!” Liam joked, nudging the indignant fortress knight with an elbow. “Quite an arm she’s got, our Byleth.”

Clarke simply glowered in response.

“Bad! No swearing!” Jeralt scolded an unrepentant Byleth. “From now on, I’m starting a swear jar. Every time one of you cusses around my kid, you add a copper to the jar.”

Marnie, master of the four-letter word, vehemently objected to this new measure. She was the first contributor to the jar. However, in time, as with all such swear jars, it eventually disappeared from use. No one knew exactly why it had vanished or where it had gone. Rumour had it that Jeralt had given up after the umpteenth time he’d stubbed his toe. Good intentions were one thing, but stubbed toes were another thing altogether.

As the seasons passed, both Byleth and the mercenary company grew. Jeralt found himself hard-pressed to keep up with his daughter’s growth spurts and newfound mobility. The sight of Jeralt or another mercenary chasing down a scampering Byleth became commonplace at camp. Possessed by an insatiable curiosity and a complete lack of self-preservation, Byleth was absolutely determined to explore the world around her, personal safety be damned.

The morning after Byleth had awoken her father to ask her _vitally_ important question, Jeralt reluctantly got out of bed and began the tedious process of packing up camp. The company had been lucky enough to secure rooms at an inn on the border of Conand, which meant that the usual process of packing up tents and belongings could be skipped. However, there were still tasks to see to before they could take off.

Jeralt cursed silently. He hadn’t managed to get much sleep after Byleth had woken him up. His eyelids felt like sandpaper and he had a headache building in the back of his skull. Byleth, of course, was fine and dandy. She scurried about the bushes lining the inn’s exterior, none-the-worse-for-wear for her late night. So long as she stayed out of the way of the preparations and kept within sight, Jeralt couldn’t bring himself to care what she did.

He nodded at several of his men as he walked into the inn’s stable, where his gelding Caliburn rested. One of his men, a young thief named Ciaran, sat on a stool by Caliburn’s stall, sorting through his bag. Jeralt hailed him. “Ciaran, I swear to Seiros, if you don’t stop filling my kid’s head with wild fantasies, I’ll see that you’re assigned latrine duty _for life_.”

The mercenary in question looked confused. “What? What did I do?”

“Don’t play innocent, I know that you told Byleth one of your crazy stories again,” Jeralt retorted, stepping into Caliburn’s stall and giving the horse an once-over. “She woke me up in the middle of the blasted night to ask what colour my insides were.” Assured that his horse was good and ready to go, he directed an unimpressed look at the younger man. “I highly doubt that she would’ve come up with a question like that on her own.”

The thief widened his eyes in faux innocence. “How do you know that she didn’t get the idea from Ghyslain? He’s always poking around people’s insides.”

“Ghys would never expose By to that kind of stuff and you well know it.”

Ciaran raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, no more impromptu anatomy lessons. How was I supposed to know that she’d take me seriously?”

“I take it that you don’t have any younger siblings?” Ciaran was young, too young to have any children running around (Jeralt hoped, fervently). He’d joined the company shortly after Byleth’s third birthday, trading life as a solitary hunter/vagrant for a life as a mercenary. His skills with lockpicks had already proved invaluable, after the incident with Lord Aegir’s secretary.

(Apparently all it took to be considered _personae non gratae_ in an entire Imperial territory was a drunk minor noble, a half-dozen courtesans, a goat, a bar brawl and a chest full of woman’s smallclothes. Go figure.)

“No, none. Why d’you ask?”

“The first thing that you need to learn about kids, especially small kids, is that they believe every damned word you tell them. If I told By that the sky was actually green and made of cheese, she’d believe me just because it’s _me_ saying it.”

Ciaran looked thoughtful. “So, if I told her that fireflies are actually fairies—“

“She’d believe you, wholeheartedly.”

Ciaran’s eyes widened again, this time in dawning realization. “And if I told her that anyone can fly if they just wish hard enough—“

“She’d climb onto the nearest roof and try to jump off of it while wishing as hard as she can to fly.” Seiros, Cichol and Cethleann, he still had nightmares about that. If he’d been just a second too late, just a bit too slow…no, better not to go down that rabbit hole.

“I’m so sorry, Jeralt. I didn’t know.” Ciaran bit his lip. “I’ll be more careful about what I say around By from now on, I promise.”

Jeralt huffed out a breath. “So long as you know now.” The two men went about their tasks in silence for a while. After a short time, Ciaran spoke.

“Uh, I know that this is a really personal question and you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but…”

“Let me guess: you want to know where By’s mother is?” It was a fair question. Only the five former Knights that had left the monastery with Jeralt knew anything of Byleth’s origins and even then, only what Jeralt had been willing to share. He hadn’t told anyone about his suspicions regarding Rhea, or the suspicious circumstances surrounding his wife’s death. It was foolhardy to blab about his unproven misgivings about the leader of the continent’s foremost religion, not if he wanted to keep his head where it was anyway.

Ciaran flushed guiltily. “Yeah, but like I said, you don’t have to say anything if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“It’s fine,” Jeralt soothed. “It’s only natural that you’d be curious.” He paused, steeling himself. It never got easier to say it out loud, regardless of how many times he said it. It felt like defeat, somehow. “She…she died in childbirth. Only Byleth survived.”

“I’m sorry,” Ciaran said sincerely. “That must’ve been hard.”

Jeralt’s mouth pinched. “It was. It still is.”

They sat in the quiet once again. The old, familiar grief niggled at Jeralt, pulling at his tired bones.

“For what it’s worth, I think that you’re doing a great job taking care of By alone,” Ciaran said, fiddling with the straps on his bag. “My old man couldn’t be arsed to even feed me after my mom died in the war.” For a moment, the thief looked ancient, much older than his fifteen years.

Jeralt looked down at Ciaran, expression turning thoughtful. He pushed aside the maudlin thoughts brought about by mention of his wife. Time enough for that another day. He grabbed Ciaran’s head and roughly ruffled his hair. “From the sounds of it, your pops couldn’t find his way out of a bottle with a map. Good thing we found you when we did. You’re more use to us than you’d ever be to an old sot like that.”

Snorting with suppressed laughter, Ciaran swatted Jeralt’s hand away. “I knew that you were just using me for your dastardly schemes! For shame!”

“Ah, get outta here, ya little twerp.” Jeralt hauled Ciaran to his feet. “There’s plenty to be done before we set off for Fraldarius and I don’t see you doing anything! Go see if Tia needs help.”

Ciaran rolled his eyes and made a rude gesture in reply, but he went. Jeralt shook his head, chuckling. He patted Caliburn on the head, earning himself a nicker in response. “I’ll come get you when we’re ready. You just hang tight until we get this shit sorted out, eh?” Caliburn nudged him in response, checking his pockets for treats. Fondly pushing the horse’s head away, Jeralt walked back to the inn, stopping to consult with Tia over the worryingly low supply of vulneraries. He paused to check in with Marnie and Liam, gossiping companionably as they loaded up food supplies into the caravan. He spotted Byleth scampering about in the tree lining the inn’s perimeter. She had acquired a basket from somewhere, its contents hidden from sight by her body.

Finished with the yard, Jeralt ducked through the inn’s front door—straight into a screaming match.

“I cannot _believe_ you! First you run off the day before an important mission, then you show up— _late_ , I might add!—with some, some _hussy_ attached to your arm!” The source of the shouting was Aislinn, a wyvern knight originally from Alliance territory. The target of her ire, a swordmaster named Eduardo, rubbed his forehead in exasperation. A comely lass stood by his side, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Jeralt could relate.

“Shout louder why don’t you, I don’t think that they can hear you in Almyra.” Eduardo winced, looking extremely hungover. Jeralt could smell the day-old alcohol wafting off of the swordsman from where he was standing. “Besides, you got it all wrong. We weren’t having sex—“

“Oh, then what were you doing in another woman’s room? Braiding her hair and talking about boys?” Aislinn looked like she was going to explode.

“As a matter of fact, yes! I was helping her prepare for her _wedding_ , to my _cousin_ , which I won’t be able to go to because of the job in Fraldarius!”

“You’re lying! You don’t have a cousin, you said that your father was an only child!”

“My mother has siblings, you daft lizard-humper! A person can have relations on _both sides_ of the family!”

As they continued arguing, Jeralt considered the merits of simply taking both their heads and smacking them together. Sure, they might get concussed and have to be carried in the caravan for the duration of the trip, but it’s be worth Ghyslain’s disapproval for some peace and quiet. His burgeoning headache grew into a pounding ache.

The door chimed as it opened, admitting Byleth. She clutched her basket to her chest, the contents wriggling eerily underneath a patchwork napkin. Jeralt felt a sense of foreboding.

Byleth trotted over to Aislinn and tugging on her riding leathers. The wyvern rider looked down, distracted. “What do you wa—oh, Byleth.” Aislinn absently patted Byleth on the head, trying to ignore the girl’s insistent yanking. “Um, I’m kind of busy right now, sweetie—“

“Now,” Byleth demanded.

“Later, okay? I need to talk to Eduardo—“

“Oh, is that what we’re doing? This is what you call talking—“

“Shut your stinking lie-hole! I’m not done yelling at you!”

“Then by all means, continue! It’s not like I have anything better to do!”

Byleth frowned, clearly discontent about being ignored. She swept the napkin off the basket and upended the contents onto the inn’s floor. A half-eaten scone, a bunch of crumbs and a small army of bugs poured out. The room was soon filled with a swarm of buzzing insects flying every which-way. Byleth watched with a look of satisfaction as a particularly large specimen flew straight into Eduardo’s face.

Pandemonium erupted in the inn. The spectators that had gathered to witness Aislinn and Eduardo’s latest lover’s spat found themselves under attack. It was every person for themselves. Some people ran for the windows, opening them and shooing the pests through. Others tried to attack the insects, using whatever was at hand. Suada, a recent transplant from Almyra, began chanting a spell to the horror of everyone present.

“We’re _indoors_ , you moron! Don’t cast Bolgannone in here!”

Jeralt decided that now was a good time to retreat. He grabbed Byleth by the hand and towed the little girl to the relative safety of the stables. Ciaran, watching the chaos from the yard, scrambled after them.

“What the hell was that?” Ciaran asked, shocked. “By? What did you do?!”

Byleth reached inside her tunic and fished around for a bit. She pulled out a squirming bug the size of Jeralt’s palm. It had a thread tied around its body, in between its many, many legs. Ciaran blanched.

“Bugs,” she said proudly.

A shriek sounded from the yard, followed by the muffled thunderclap of a Fire spell. The scent of charred wood drifted into the stable, causing the equine occupants to stamp and snort nervously. Jeralt sank to the ground, covering his face with a groan. Byleth patted his head consolingly, new friend clutched in the other hand.

It writhed. Ciaran edged away.

There was the sound of glass breaking and someone shouting, “What the hell did you do that for?!” Jeralt quietly resolved to avoid Conand for the next little while. With any luck, by the time they came through this area again, the innkeeper would have forgotten all about this incident and they _wouldn’t_ get banned from yet another inn.

&&&

Fraldarius Castle, ancestral home and seat of the Shield of Faerghus, was a pretty nice place, in Jeralt’s humble opinion. It was grand, sure, with towering walls and buttresses and fancy carvings out the ass. In that respect, its ostentatiousness was like every other castle that Jeralt had ever seen. No, what made Fraldarius Castle nice were its inhabitants.

The current lord, Rodrigue Achille, seemed like a decent sort. He’d readily welcomed the group of bloodied, rain-soaked mercenaries into his abode, despite the late hour. They were allowed to bathe and change into dry clothes, then provided with food and guest rooms. Jeralt couldn’t remember the last time a noble had treated him with anything even approaching this level of hospitality (wait, yes he did—never!). The last time they’d called upon a lord in his home, the entire company had been forced to share a loft in an old barn. A very _cramped_ loft.

Byleth had been unimpressed by Rodrigue’s generosity, but then again, she’d been rather distracted by her new friend, the biggest fucking bug that Jeralt had ever seen in his life. She’d dubbed it Pillywiggins and proceeded to take it everywhere with her in a makeshift sling. Jeralt drew the line at allowing the thing anywhere near food, but he resigned himself to his daughter’s new bestest friend. At the very least, it was quiet and didn’t leave shit everywhere.

Then, because apparently the Goddess _did_ listen, Pillywiggins had escaped from his leash and been summarily crushed by a wagon wheel.

Jeralt felt mildly guilty about the sigh of relief that he’d breathed when Pillywiggins had been squished. Byleth had been despondent about the sudden demise of her pet—well, for her, anyways. She’d frowned slightly more heavily than usual, then tied Pillywiggins’ leash around her griffon toy’s neck in a messy bow. She’d then proceeded to clamber into Liam’s lap for the rest of the trip, little face stony.

Jeralt, personally, did not mourn Pillywiggins. He wasn’t afraid of insects, but he wasn’t too fond of them either. No bug on the Goddess’ green earth should get that fucking big or have that many legs without being smitten as a sin against nature. Byleth, however, didn’t share in her father’s antipathy.

“Hey, aren’t you hungry? It’s been a while since we last ate,” Liam asked. He and Jeralt sat at a table in the garrison’s mess hall, watching Byleth push her food around her plate. Their own plates were long since empty, cleaned of even the smallest crumb. The journey from Conand to Fraldarius had been tiring, especially given their abrupt departure from the inn.

“Don’t want it.” Byleth pushed her plate away, resting her chin on the table and staring at nothing moodily. She clutched her stuffed griffon, refusing to let it go. Jeralt and Liam shared a look over her head.

“Are you still upset about what happened with Pillywhatsits?” Jeralt asked.

“No,” Byleth lied. She glanced askance at her father. “His name is _Pillywiggins_.”

“I think you mean ‘was’,” Jeralt corrected. Liam punched him on the shoulder. “What? What’s that look for?” Byleth’s shoulders hunched as she crossed her arms underneath her chin, burrowing her face into them. Jeralt looked helplessly at Liam, who grabbed his captain by the wrist and towed him into the corridor outside.

“Okay, what just happened in there?” Jeralt asked as soon as they were in the clear. “Why did she turtle up on me?”

Liam sighed. “Jeralt, she’s in mourning. She just lost her friend.”

“Friend? It was a bug! How do you make friends with a bug the size of a small apple? A dog or a cat I could understand, but a creepy-crawly like that?”

“Yes, but to Byleth, Pillywiggins was as real a friend as any,” Liam explained patiently. “She doesn’t have the same limitations as us. _Anything_ can be a friend to a kid, even an inanimate object.”

Jeralt closed his eyes, scratching his head in bewilderment. “I don’t get it. She’s never made this much of a fuss over anything before. Remember when she had that nosebleed? Didn’t make so much as a whimper.” If anything, it had been Jeralt who had been scarred for life. Waking up to your child standing in the doorway, dripping blood down her front without so much as an expression on her face was not a sight for the faint of heart.

“That’s because it wasn’t emotional pain. This is probably the first time I’ve ever seen By get emotionally attached to something of her own volition,” Liam continued. “She’s always been indifferent to everything around her. She’s probably never felt loss like this before and she doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“So what does that have to do with what I said?” Jeralt questioned.

“You reminded her that her ‘best friend in the whole world’ was dead. She’s still processing what happened and you just, clocked her over the head with it, so to speak.”

Jeralt blinked slowly. “…I don’t get it. It died, the end. It’s just a pile of chitin and juicy bits now. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s—that—that’s not how Byleth sees it!” Liam cried, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Okay, look, how would you feel if someone told you to just get over your dead wife because she’s just a pile of bones and putrefied flesh now? Would you like it if someone had gone up to you right after she’d passed and said “Welp, so much for her, wah wah wah!”?”

“I would probably beat the shit out anyone that said that,” Jeralt replied evenly. Perhaps a touch _too_ evenly to be genuine.

“Well, there you go! That’s what Byleth is probably feeling right now.” Liam ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “You have to remember that By’s still a little kid. She doesn’t have the experience or perspective that we do as adults. What she’s thinking and feeling might seem silly to you, but to her, it’s very real. And right now, she’s hurting.”

Jeralt stared at a flickering torch ensconced on the wall for a moment, mind turning over what Liam had said. It was true that he would’ve punched anyone who had mocked or dismissed his grief after his wife had died. Hell, he would still do that _now_. He still thought that it was rather pointless to mourn for a bug that probably wouldn’t have lived long anyways, but…if Byleth was in pain, then it was his duty to make it better.

“Alright, I think I got the gist of it.” He glanced into the mess hall. Byleth was still slouched over the table, cheek pressed against the sticky surface. Fantastic. Who knew what kind of substances had been spilled on the table over the years. “Guess I should go apologize to her, huh?”

“Yes, I think that that’s a fantastic idea. I think that we should also hold a short funeral for Pillywiggins.”

Jeralt refrained from rolling his eyes, but only with immense willpower. “Oh good, a funeral for the bug. Will we need to make a little casket for it—ow!”

Liam withdrew his hand, glaring at Jeralt. “If you’re going to be an ass about it, then _I’ll_ do it.”

“Okay, okay, sheesh! Fine, we’ll have a service and then we can put this thing to rest.” Annoyed with the world at large, Jeralt headed back into the mess hall.

“Look, just say you’re sorry, okay?” Liam sighed as he trailed after him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeralt grumbled. The conversation came to a halt as they returned to their table, both men sitting on either side of Byleth’s slouched form. Her eyes tracked their movement, but she didn’t otherwise acknowledge them.

“By, I, uh,” Jeralt cleared his throat awkwardly. Apologies had never been his forte. “I’m sorry about what I said about Pillywiggins earlier. I know that you’re still trying to deal with, um, what happened to him, and I shouldn’t have reminded you of it.”

The little girl hugged her toy, eyes focusing on her father’s face.

Liam gently urged Byleth to remove her face from the table. Both men grimaced as her cheek peeled free with a sticky sound. “How about me, you and your dad hold a funeral for Pillywiggins? I know that there’s no body to bury, but we can still have a ceremony for him, if you want.”

Byleth tilted her head to the side. “What’s a funeral?”

“It’s a kind of…meeting, where people that knew someone when they were alive gather together and pay their respects to the person who died,” Jeralt explained. “It’s so that they can say goodbye to the deceased and guide them to the next world.”

“Is Pillywiggins in the next world?” Byleth asked, voice muffled against her griffon. “Is it nice there?”

Liam hummed. “No one knows for sure, but I’d like to think that it is.” Privately, Jeralt wondered if bugs even had souls to begin with, or an afterlife of any sort, but kept his mouth shut.

After a brief pause, Byleth nodded. She looked up at the two men. “Can we do it now?”

Jeralt smiled faintly. He took her small hand in his own. “I don’t see why not. Let’s go find a good spot first, eh?”

And so they went to pay their last respects to the fucking nasty-ass bug—er, Pollywhatever. They found a suitable tree in one of the courtyards and created a mound of orange and red leaves as a makeshift cairn. Liam spoke a brief eulogy, entreating the Goddess to receive Pillywiggins into her loving embrace. He produced a mostly-used candle from one of his many pockets and had Byleth light it. She crouched, staring into its flickering flame, unblinking. Throughout the entire process, Jeralt just tried his damnedest not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, going through the motions as best he could.

When the candle finally burnt out, Byleth released a breath and stood. She wrapped her arms around Liam’s waist, hugging as hard as her little arms would allow.

Liam patted her head, smiling. “Feeling better now?”

Byleth nodded. Her stomach made a sound like a box of rocks rolling down a hill. She lifted her, declaring, “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are. You barely touched your food earlier.” As a matter of fact, Jeralt was feeling a mite peckish too, despite the fact that he’d eaten not even half an hour ago. And no wonder, considering that he hadn’t even had time to grab seconds. He picked up Byleth and sat her on his shoulders. “I could go for some grub myself.”

“You can have my greens,” Byleth offered magnanimously as Jeralt began walking, Liam a step behind. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Yeah, nice try, kiddo. I’ll get my own greens, you eat yours.”

“But you need them more. I’m little, so I don’t eat much.”

“You still have to eat your vegetables, By, or you’re not gonna get stronger. Don’t you want to beat me in sword training?”

“I can beat you already, I don’t need them.”

“Oho! Well then, I guess we’ll just have to test that out on the training grounds later. For now, you have to eat your food like a good girl so that you’ll have the strength to spar.”

“…Mm’kay...”

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to accurately convey how a small child acts, but I don't know if I managed to accomplished it (lol)
> 
> Jeralt’s merc company:
> 
> Original members -   
> Jeralt: Paladin  
> Ghyslain: Bishop  
> Marnie: Warrior  
> Tia: Warlock  
> Liam: Sniper  
> Clarke: Fortress Knight
> 
> Joined later on –   
> Ciaran: Thief  
> Aislinn: Wyvern Rider  
> Eduardo: Swordmaster  
> Suada: Mortal Savant


End file.
